


Unlikely, Unbidden, Unbound

by shewhospeakswiththunder



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Armitage Hux Needs A Hug, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Confessions, Crack, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Forehead Kisses, Gingerflower, Gingerrose - Freeform, Hux is an asshole... until he isnt, Hux's gloves come OFF, Imprisonment, Kissing, Mentions of execution, Neck Kissing, POV Armitage Hux, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Pining, Rare Pairings, Redemption, Reylo shows up in the epilogue, Rose Tico Deserved Better, Rose Tico Needs A Hug, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Thinking About Death, Touch-Starved, let's pretend TROS never happened, mentions of past Finn/Rose, no suicidal ideation though, romantic hand touches, this is self-indulgent bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 19,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewhospeakswiththunder/pseuds/shewhospeakswiththunder
Summary: General Hux is imprisoned by the Resistance when the First Order falls. He had known his death was coming, it was simply a matter of course.He’s disappointed to learn the Resistance has other plans, and an unwavering policy of giving people second chances.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico
Comments: 64
Kudos: 136





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I unabashedly love Rose Tico and Armitage Hux, and the powder keg of emotions between them. I normally do Reylo, but Gingerflower sunk its claws into me and nOW IT MUST BE WRITTEN, so saith my muse. 
> 
> This fic will update more or less once a week. Chapters are often short.

  


This wasn’t the first time Armitage had been tossed unceremoniously into a prison cell, and by all accounts, it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

He hit the floor hard, the impact knocking the wind out of him, and the first breath of air he could inhale was an aching wheeze that hurt like hell. Wiping a trickle of blood from his chin with the back of a gloved hand, he winced at the stab of pain from his cut lip.

Thrice-damned Resistance filth.

With what dignity he could muster, Armitage swept his gel-stiff hair back from his eyes and struggled to stand, each movement introducing a new jolt of pain to his already battered body.

The cell was small and sparse. A thin wool blanket was folded neatly in the corner on the floor, the only visible creature comfort these cretins had bothered to give him. There wasn’t even a bed, only a rough-hewn stone floor. Durasteel rods drilled into the bedrock ensured the slim likelihood of escape.

To top it all, the place reeked of must. Armitage wrinkled his nose in distaste.

The situation was bleak.

He had seen the end coming from a hundred parsecs away. The ability to predict probable outcomes had been a boon to him in so many situations before, allowing him to maneuver people and events in such a way as to ensure the success of his own personal enterprises. This time, he had seen the fate of the First Order written in stone, as if watching the last couple moves of a game of dejarik and already knowing the inevitable result of the game board. Like watching a planet rush toward you from the flight deck of a plummeting warship.

Any move Armitage could have made to survive had been prevented at every turn, and there was nothing he could do now except wait patiently for a certain death at the hands of rebel dogs. It wasn’t an ideal way to go, but he could reasonably conjecture that at least his execution would be swift. Organa wasn’t known for sadism.

In their place, it’s what he would do.


	2. Chapter 2

Time passed, but it was impossible to say how much. Armitage’s cell was deep underground, if the mildew was any indication, with not a timepiece in sight. Perhaps it was for the better—with any luck, he might succumb to insanity long before his execution could take place.

Or, he might starve to death first, his empty belly suggested.

In reality, he was more likely to die of dehydration before starvation, if his limited medical knowledge served correctly. Humanoids could only live for so long without water, breathing waterbags that they were. Starvation was slower, more torturous, the body able to eat itself from the inside out for a time, prolonging the eventual collapse of organ-systems by breaking down muscle and fat tissue for energy.

Such were the dark musings of a prisoner. What else did Armitage have to occupy his thoughts during the indeterminate passage of day and night?

The only satisfaction he could glean from his current circumstance was knowing that somewhere, Ren was sure to be suffering just the same.


	3. Chapter 3

Armitage had fallen into that state of quasi-sleep that punctuated his term of imprisonment in erratic cycles. His body informed him with its fatigue every so often that days and nights were passing up above but, unable to visually reconcile it with the unending twilight underground, any sleep he did get was superficial and unrefreshing. At the sound of footsteps approaching, he awoke with a start.

Rocketing up from his slouched position against the wall, he brushed off his clothes and fussed with his hair and, putting on his best sneer, waited for the visitors to come into view.

“General Organa,” he drawled in greeting as she rounded a corner, accompanied by several others. “What a pleasant surprise.”

The lanterns they held aloft hurt Armitage’s eyes, but he gave his best effort not to flinch.

Leia pursed her lips and leveled a deadpan glare at him. “Stuff the etiquette, Hux.”

He gave her a cold smile. “Despite what your ragtag team of insurgents might think of me, I _am_ a gentleman.”

Her brows shot up. “So, it was the gentlemanly thing to do, to lay waste to an entire star system.”

Smile freezing into a grimace, he made to retort, but stilled as Leia shook her head tiredly.

“I didn’t come down here to fight with you.”

“How disappointing."

“The truth is, I came here to ask for your help. The war’s over, but there’s a lot of work left to do. We need all hands on deck, and as someone with some leadership experience… you could be useful.”

Nothing could have shocked Armitage more, but he recovered quickly and bit out, his voice shaking with rage, “I would rather die.”

“I figured you’d say that. Thing is,” Leia said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “that’s the easy way out. Of course, we _could_ execute you. There are plenty who are calling for it, believe me. But watching you working with your former enemies would give me so much greater pleasure than seeing your head roll.”

The smirk on Leia’s face made his blood boil.

“It’s your choice, though,” she continued. “You can sit here and waste away, or you can join us. When you’re ready, let us know.”

Armitage gripped the bars of his cell with white knuckles and watched her go.

So. She was a sadist after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Food began to arrive, and water. Paltry stuff, bland and colorless, but it filled his belly.

Between the wordless visits from various rebels bringing him supplies and permitting him closely monitored bathroom breaks, there was plenty of time to think.

The situation was even bleaker than he had thought.

The easy assumption of death now denied him, Armitage was left with two equally detestable options. The first, to sit in his cell until somebody forgot about him and left him to rot. The second… well, the second option was unthinkable.

Hours continued to slip by, piling up into indeterminable days. The mind-numbing routine of _wait for breakfast, pace your cell, wait for dinner, sit or pace some more_ began to grate on his nerves. Every time he thought he might scream out of sheer, maddening boredom, his thoughts would shift once more to that second option, but his pride would stomp them back down.

As if he, Armitage Hux, War General of the First Order, Destroyer of the Republic, a man who murdered his own father for the mere promise of power, could ever become one of _them._

Even if he did capitulate to Leia and take her up on her humiliating terms, what good would it do? What sort of assignment would he be given? Sanitation manager? No one would ever trust him with any meaningful task and, more likely than not, he’d end up dead in his quarters with a knife between the ribs for all his trouble.

He resigned himself to this new lot in life: the slow and miserable torture of being alive but unable to _live._

It was driving him insane.


	5. Chapter 5

The only way to differentiate between breakfast and dinner was the type of food on the tray. Gruel for the morning, although sometimes, rarely, served with a hard-boiled egg. For dinner, a high-protein meal bar with an unappetizing lump of veg-meat to compliment.

It was an egg day when Armitage saw _her_ again for the first time since the destruction of the _Supremacy._

He didn’t know her name, hadn’t bothered to ask for it when his men had captured her. From the naked accusation in her eye as she scooted his tray along the floor and into his cell with the toe of her work-boot, she probably thought he wouldn’t remember her at all.

But he did.

How could he forget the hate in her glare as she had looked up at him, forced to her knees on the floor of the _Supremacy’s_ biggest hangar, wrists bound and struggling? As if the crescent-shaped scar on his index finger where her teeth had broken skin wasn’t reminder enough. With all the chaos unleashed on that fateful day, he hadn’t made it to a medical bay in time for bacta to resolve the scar tissue.

Through the gloom of his cell, Armitage caught a glimpse of that fire again, every bit as raging as before. He could tell that it gave her great satisfaction to be the one looking down at _him_ this time.

He couldn’t blame her.

The memory of her sudden appearance lingered long after she had gone.


	6. Chapter 6

  


Armitage gave in when he realized he couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep anymore.

The breakfast tray-bearer took a shock and nearly dropped the bowl of congealing gruel when Armitage cleared his throat and croaked out, “I’d like to speak with General Organa.”

If the tray _had_ fallen, Armitage was ashamed to admit that he would have spooned what he could salvage of the meal off the floor and into his mouth. His resolve strengthened.

Leia returned much later, flanked by an enormous Wookiee and _her._ Both were armed, with bowcaster and stun-gun respectively, and Armitage swallowed drily before rising to his feet, prepared to meet his fate.

“I hear you want to talk,” Leia started for him.

“I’ve decided that I would like to join your ranks,” he stated as loftily as he could, the effect somewhat diminished by the hoarseness in his voice from long disuse.

 _She_ spoke up. “Why?”

“I’ve realized the error of my ways and wish to make amends,” he rattled off.

Leia chuckled. “You’ll have to be more convincing than that.”

“I wasn’t under the impression that an interview was part of the recruitment process.”

“You’re a special case.”

“Very well. I’ve had a meaningful opportunity to revisit my personal beliefs during my incarceration, and—”

“Nope. Try again,” Leia interrupted.

Armitage blinked. “My only desire now is to rectify—”

Leia sighed. “Come on, let’s go,” she said to her companions, turning to leave.

“No, wait!” Armitage blurted, reaching out through the cell’s bars after them. It struck him just how pathetic he must appear to them now, and he retracted his hand quickly, gritting his teeth.

But Leia had halted, one brow quirked.

“I…” He cleared his throat and clenched his fists to stop his hands from trembling. “If you won’t execute me like a proper war criminal, I have to find some way to survive. And I can’t do that in here. I’m losing my mind.”

“I’ve heard better, but it’ll do. Chewie?” Leia said, gesturing to the cell door.

The Wookiee stepped forward, growling under his breath, the lock clanking as the tumblers spun with the key. Armitage dutifully held his wrists out as the door opened on squeaking hinges, but the three visitors had already begun walking away.

He jogged to catch up with them, the sudden freedom of movement a joy in itself, despite his muscles groaning in protest.

For several minutes, everyone was quiet, their sound of their boots on the ground echoing off the rock walls.

“I can assume there’s some sort of… protocol for integrating former adversaries into service,” he remarked, more to wheedle any scrap of information he could get to prepare for what lay in wait for him than anything else.

“We’ve had to hit the ground running, so to speak, but our success rate is promising so far,” Leia said, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth.

Armitage frowned. He didn’t like the implications.

“And how many ‘successes’ would you say there have been?”

“More than you’d think.”

He pursed his lips, irritated with her noncommittal responses.

“We’ve been handling things on a case-by-case basis,” Leia grinned. If Armitage had to guess, she was getting a kick out of this.

If his prior life had taught him anything, it was to never underestimate an opponent, or their penchant to make others suffer. A lesson learned too many times to count, and at the moment he was at his enemies’ mercy.

What punishments waited for him in the light of day? A tribunal? Hard labor? Surely there would be a period of atonement, an expectation that he pay for his crimes committed in the name of the First Order. Leia’s stubborn refusal to give him even an inkling only set his imagination in motion, making his heart hammer and his hands sweat.

Leia’s voice cut through his catastrophizing.

“But first, we’ll just show you around the place.”

Surprise gave way to distrust. They were prolonging some sort of charade before the hammer of judgment would fall, revealing his true fate.

Durasteel paneling eventually began to replace the rough-cut rock walls, and a pinprick of daylight up ahead grew larger as they approached the exit. Soon, Armitage had to shield his eyes from the brightness. He couldn’t remember the last time he had stood under the true light of a sun.

It hurt.

The adjustment to the sunlight took longer than he felt it ought to have. And, even though Leia was pointing out different places and telling him what they were, Armitage barely registered his surroundings, his focus centered on not losing sight of his entourage in his temporary blindness.

Once they were back inside another building, Armitage finally could lower his hands and take in the bustle around him.

It was disorienting, seeing a place so like a First Order flagship and yet so different. Each person scooting past them was on errand, each to his own particular responsibility much like any First Order officer or orderly, but the variety of dress, not to mention _life-form,_ hit him especially.

Several hallways later, Armitage found himself in an office. Leia’s, presumably, by the way she settled easily into the chair behind the desk. She motioned for him to sit across from her. Complying, he didn’t fail to note the other two accompanying keeping their weapons at-the-ready, although they did fall back a few steps.

Altogether, he approved of the space. It was sparse and clean, just the way a general’s office should be. He wasn’t petty enough to hate a place just because it belonged to a nemesis. _Former_ nemesis, anyway—it was imperative that he acclimate himself to his circumstances. If he was survive this ordeal, that meant restructuring his perspectives drastically.

He waited for Leia to begin, crossing one leg over the other and inspecting his nails. Overgrown, he noted with distaste.

“Welcome to the Resistance.”

Armitage plastered a smile on his face.

“You’ll be provided with personal quarters.”

“Private, I hope.”

“Of course,” Leia responded evenly. “At present, there aren’t any requests to share a room with you.”

It was a shot aimed to bring him down a peg, and rightfully so. He didn’t retaliate, but did give her his full attention.

“I’ve decided to put you in charge of environmental services’ scheduling.”

Armitage closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths through his nose to calm down. _Manager of sanitation._ Sometimes he hated that he was always right.

“Should I remind you of your two options?” Leia said, her cordial tone only thinly glossing over the threat underneath.

“That will be unnecessary, General. I’ll accept the position. With gratitude,” he replied, pasting on another close-lipped smile.

As Leia proceeded to outline the requirement and responsibilities of the job, Armitage resigned himself to his new life of drudgery.

It wasn’t much, and far from thrilling. It would entail hours of puttering around with online coding systems that detailed work and maintenance schedules. Leia suspected several layers of redundancy to the matrix that allowed for loopholes in the schedule, and it would be Armitage’s task to revamp it and make it more efficient.

After some thought on the matter, he did have to admit that although tedious, he was well-suited for this sort of position. He had always craved order, precision, and the idea of manufacturing a well-oiled machine of a workforce had a certain appeal.

He indicated his understanding and acceptance of the task, and Leia then stood up and leaned over the desk toward him in a classic show of authority. He knew—he had used it more times than he could count.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but I’ll say it anyway. My people are under strict orders to take care of anyone and anything they think might be a threat to the Resistance. Do I make myself clear?”

“Pristinely.”

“Good. Chewie will take you to your quarters. You should rest. You look like shit.”

Armitage’s mouth twisted as he bit back a number of scathing remarks, instead settling on a strained, “Thank you.”

Standing and crossing over to the door, Armitage saw that _she_ stayed behind with Leia as he and the Wookiee left.

Following the colossal shag-carpet of a creature through another labyrinth of hallways, he ignored the stares he was beginning to elicit, in varying shades of surprise and outrage. He never was one to make many friends, and even with this new lease on life that wasn’t likely to change. All he could do was carry himself with as much dignity as possible and pretend he couldn’t see the hate-filled glares following him.

Finally, the Wookiee stopped at one particular door in a secluded end of a corridor. Punching a few digits into a keypad, the door whooshed open to reveal a single-person room, replete with all the luxuries of a thin mattress, a threadbare blanket, and the tiniest ‘fresher Armitage had ever seen.

“I assume I’ll be under some sort of observation,” he said frostily as he stepped across the threshold.

The Wookiee grumbled menacingly, and Armitage hadn’t the faintest idea if it was in the affirmative or not, but it punched the panel next to the door again with a furry paw and it swished shut, sealing Armitage in yet another cell.

He took stock of the amenities. A towel, a change of clothes, an outdated holopad.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Armitage stripped down to the skin and threw his old clothes to the floor in a heap. They had been his only garments since the day of his capture and they reeked, but even so he still had to fight the urge to go back and fold them neatly. He hadn’t had a good wash in stars knew how long—they could sit on the floor awhile.

He had every intention of turning the water in the ‘fresher on full blast and rinsing from top to bottom for as long as it would run in this backwater hellhole, but the sight of his own face in the mirror stopped him dead in his tracks.

The greasy hair on his head was unkempt and longer than he ever would have permitted under normal circumstances. It hung over his brow in slick strands, worsening the effect of his sallow complexion and the pinched look in his cheeks. Not having access to depil cream during his imprisonment, which he preferred to apply to his face religiously each day cycle, he had grown a full, thick beard. It was hideous. And orange.

Something told him that it would be a long time before sharp objects would be allowed within his arms’ reach, so he didn’t even bother searching for a razor before stepping into a shower stall the size of a youngling’s escape pod.

There was no hot water at all, he soon discovered, only a freezing deluge probably drawn from _well-water,_ the savages, but he still managed to savor the shower all the same. A bottle of liquid soap had been provided, and he used up about half the bottle in the first go, scrubbing every inch of his filthy body he could reach.

When he stepped out of the ‘fresher, he was a new man. Cleanliness was a virtue, and one he had always cultivated. There were times when a person had to get a little dirty—scrabbling in the mud with another cadet to establish leadership, scouring drying blood from under his fingernails—but there was little a solid washing couldn’t fix.

Exhaustion hit him like a TIE fighter collision. Curling up under his blanket, he dropped heavily into the first real sleep he’d had in ages.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage Hux is a pretentious snob...
> 
> ...but one with feelings.

The morning didn’t start off well, but then, Armitage didn’t expect much of anything to go well from this point forward.

He had already donned the one extra-large jumpsuit given to him, cuffing the sleeves and pant hems several times over and _still_ looking ridiculous. At the curt knock at his door, he crossed over to open it, fully expecting to greet a wall of brown fur and a loaded bowcaster, but instead found himself face-to-face with _her._

He didn’t try to hide his surprise.

“Ah. So, you’re to be my supervisor today.” He searched for a name tag, finding none. “Miss…?”

“The General told me you need access to the scheduling mainframe.” The tense set of her shoulders spoke volumes about just how little she wanted to be in his company.

Armitage buried the urge to roll his eyes at her rudeness.

“That is correct.”

“Fine,” she said, just as coolly, crossing her arms and giving him a better view of the electro-shock prod held loosely in her hand. “But I’m eating first.”

She turned on her heel and marched away, leaving Armitage no choice but to follow her to the now-crowded mess hall. It was busy enough that no one paid him mind, preoccupied as they all were in their various stages of waking up, staring at cups of the bitter swill that passed for caf here or engaging in lively conversation with table mates.

Joining the serving line, he turned his nose up in disgust, displeased to learn they hadn’t been sending in the worst of the fare to his cell after all. The morning gruel the cook was slopping into bowls was much the same in consistency and smell, and Armitage’s stomach churned at the thought of shoveling even one more spoonful of it into his mouth. Choosing instead a prepackaged vegmeat bar, he reasoned that it would probably be easier to stuff down his throat than that steaming mess.

He was wrong.

His assigned companion had chosen a secluded corner of the hall to set her tray, and he meandered his way over toward her, sitting down across the table from her.

It took every ounce of willpower he had to chew through the bar and not gag. How in the galaxy could something be so flavorless and yet so foul?

Her judgmental stare was starting to put him in a bad mood, but he decided to hold his tongue.

“Something wrong with your meal?” she asked as he slung back a gulp of caf in an effort to wash the vegmeat down.

He grimaced at the hot liquid burning its way down to his stomach, but responded, “It’s satisfactory.”

“I guess you’d be more used to all the fine food you confiscated from the planets you blockaded.”

Armitage gathered his patience and his wits about him. She was goading him, that much was obvious, but besides not wanting to make a scene, the shock prod on the table in front of him was reason enough not to play into her anger.

“You’re right.”

She sucked in a breath. Apparently, she had expected something different, and Armitage continued, pleased.

“But, I’ll gladly do without. It’s a small loss, when compared to the privilege of serving a greater purpose.”

Now she narrowed her eyes. “You lying slimeball.”

“If we’re to spend time together, perhaps you should consider using a little more civility.”

“Don’t talk to me about civility!” she hissed, keeping her voice low, her knuckles turning white where her hands clenched the edge of the table. “Was it _civil_ for the First Order to—”

“I’m no longer a _member_ of the _First Order—”_

“You will never deserve to be here after everything you’ve done!”

Nearby heads were starting to turn, and Armitage was desperate to get the situation under control, despite his own simmering temper.

In a calm voice, he asked, “You disagree with General Organa’s decision, then?”

“Yes, I do.” 

“Pity then, that it wasn’t your choice to make.”

“There are a lot of things I would’ve chosen to do to you, and you would’ve deserved _every single one.”_

“You refer to my execution?” It was a struggle now to keep his voice under control.

Tears of anger formed in her eyes. It was confirmation enough.

“Well. We finally agree on something.”

He broke away from the wide-eyed stare she now aimed at him, glassy with unshed tears, concerned that he’d shown her something too close to a vulnerability. If she was as ruthless as he had been taught to be, she would exploit it as soon as possible. Armitage would have to be on his guard.

Still breathing heavily from the heated exchange, he shoved the last tough bite of vegmeat in his mouth and washed it down with the last of the caf.

“If we’re finished here, I’d like to go about my assignment. Would you be _so kind_ as to escort me to the mainframe?”

Standing up, he ran his hand back through his hair in agitation. It was overgrown, and not having access to the means of styling it away from his face, it kept getting in his eyes.

Not only was he a disgraced former enemy, forced to parade around this compound like a damn idiot in a jumpsuit too big for him, but he also looked like an unkempt ginger bantha. It was enough to drive him mad.

She blinked back her tears and rose, making for the exit with all the urgency of an escape.

Armitage felt like running away, too, but that wasn’t an option. And he had work to do.


	8. Chapter 8

  


There were mountains of code to comb through, a hundred nit-picky tweaks to be made to the most patched-over ad-hoc scheduling system Armitage had ever had the misfortune to work with in his entire life. And, the beam of dislike _she_ was leveling at him from where she sat a span away proved distracting.

The scheduling mainframe was located in a blessedly low-traffic area, the only sound the electric humming of the consoles. The company of computers was vastly preferable to people at the moment, but it didn’t make his job any less tedious. Organa should have considered herself lucky to have coerced as detail-oriented a person as Armitage to do it—he doubted anyone else would have the patience or the endurance.

But with _her_ there, his focus slipped.

Armitage would be lying if he said the image of her in a crisp, freshly laundered officer’s uniform didn’t spring to his mind’s eye a few times. Admittedly, the drab jumpsuit she wore now probably suited her better and, he noticed with chagrin, hers actually _fit_ her.

Standing upright from his hunched position over the keyboard, he stretched his back and tried to regain control of his meandering thoughts.

Now that he’d seen the general structure of the program, he hoped to tinker with sections of it from his holopad in the privacy of his quarters.

However, the day was far from over. Interviews and shadowing still awaited him. It was the minimum of what any mediocre mid-level manager would be expected to do, but not only was it bound to be insufferably boring, it also promised to be the most odious portion of the process.

Armitage could just imagine it.

_‘Hello, my name is Armitage Hux. You may recognize me as a former high-ranking enemy to the Resistance, but don’t worry, I’ve been demoted. Please tell me about the work you do and your scheduling process.’_

Discomfort coiled tightly in his belly, and for a moment he indulged in a brief longing for the solitude of his old cell.

It went as smoothly as could be expected. Which was to say, not smoothly at all.

Every time he approached a maintenance person, _she_ sniggered at him. Armitage hadn’t professionally spoken to anyone ranking less than a lieutenant in a standard year, and he could easily guess her amusement stemmed from the stilted introductions on his part and the incredulity and barely-concealed contempt on the interviewees’.

A familiar low grumble from behind dragged Armitage’s attention away from yet another conversation with a flustered worker, noticing from the corner of his eye _her_ smile and chuckle at something the Wookiee had said. From the way she flicked her glance in his direction and laughed again, he surmised it was probably something derogatory about him.

Armitage pursed his lips and rounded back on the maintenance worker, only to discover he had vanished as if into thin air.

“Blast!” he snapped, catching the Wookiee’s attention.

Scowling, Armitage decided that he had done enough work for one day.

“I’d like to go back to my room,” he muttered, feeling for all the world like a petulant child.

She nodded once and said goodbye to the Wookiee, then led the way back through the labyrinthine hallways to the barracks.

Before he could reach the code pad and punch in the passkey, she whirled on him, eyes bright.

“My sister died bombing your dreadnought.”

The _Fulminatrix._ A day Armitage remembered well. So, she had been saving this one to spring on him. Probably dwelling on it for hours, judging by the dagger-like stares she’d directed at him at every opportunity.

He disliked the trajectory of the conversation.

Composing a neutral expression, he said mechanically, “My condolences.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Shock and disgust laced her words.

This close, he used his height to his advantage. He towered over her, noticing for the first time her petiteness, for all her piss and vinegar.

“I apologize that your sister’s bombing raid on my ship resulted in her untimely demise,” he grated, locking eyes with her. 

She was attempting to pin him down with the guilt of her sister’s death, but he wouldn’t have it. It wasn’t _his_ fault—not directly, anyway.

But the pain written all over her face, and the defiance with which she met his glare despite having to crane her neck back to do so, tugged at something in his chest. She wanted so badly to lay the blame at his feet, to make _him_ suffer for _her_ pain and loss. He couldn’t fault her for it, but he also couldn’t allow it to occur. Accepting guilt for _that_ would mean facing guilt for every action he had taken as a First Order official… and that was unendurable.

He reached around her and punched in his passkey, brushing past her and stalking into his quarters before slamming the door in her face.

That grief didn’t belong to him, and he couldn’t bear it.


	9. Chapter 9

Armitage knew from personal experience that animosity tended to be exhausting, especially when drawn out over extended periods of time. And so it was, to his relief, that _her_ resolve to hate him from a distance soon flagged, the glares eventually giving way to contemptuous glances, which in turn further dissipated into bored disinterest.

Although a far cry from socially stimulating, Armitage came to find some comfort in her constant presence, similar to the appreciation he had when an MSE-6 would skitter past him in the hallway on his ship, cleaning as it went.

She didn’t ever clean anything, her hands more often than not stained with what he could only assume was engine grease, and was most certainly _not_ a droid, but she was _there._ And it was… nice.

A week or so after the ‘hateful glaring’ stage of their relationship had passed, he even attempted communication.

“Might I have your name?”

He _could_ blame it on needing a break from wading through the interminable stretch of code currently in front of him, or on his irritation at needing to clear his throat to grab her attention. If another subtler motive had prompted it, he didn’t have to admit to it. Least of all, to himself.

His question shocked a response out of her before she could think better of it.

“Rose.”

He nodded and left it at that. A small victory.

***

Strategically speaking, it would have been unwise for Armitage to alter the scheduling system currently in use without first engaging the chain of command to ask permission. From the perspective of a low-ranking individual, this was just protocol. From his own unique position within this organization, doing _anything_ without approval would invite scrutiny at best, and suspicion at worst—two things Armitage did not need, his situation already precarious enough.

Thus, the time had finally come to present his proposal to Leia and her team, and as he stood next to a holo-projector in a conference room filled with people who despised him, a cool sweat broke out on his brow.

Swallowing, he continued to speak. “Minimal managerial input, combined with the controlled self-delegation I’ve built into the system, will net an estimated ten thousand credits per quarter by reducing scheduling redundancy. To extrapolate, about forty thousand per annum.”

He noted the expressions around the room, and the knot in his belly eased, seeing more than a few surprised faces.

“Once in effect, this system requires almost no interference on my part. If leadership,” he nodded at Leia, “finds this system an acceptable alternative, I will have the resources to roll it out to all applicable areas. In your digital file, in section three, you’ll find a list of these potential areas highlighted, along with additional estimated cost savings organization-wide.”

He had planned for this moment, rehearsed it in front of the little mirror in his bathroom for hours before the meeting, but his heart still raced.

“This is… a considerable amount,” Leia commented, a hint of disbelief coloring her tone.

“You’ll note my calculations in the addendum. It _is_ considerable, but as you can see, entirely possible. Freeing up that sort of funding would have a dramatic effect on expenditures for your… current efforts.”

Whatever those efforts might be. Besides eliminating the First Order, and that goal summarily accomplished, Armitage hadn’t the slightest idea what the Resistance wanted— nor did he care.

A silence settled on the room, and anxiety coiled tightly in his gut once more.

“Mister Hux,” a lieutenant from the back of the room started, Armitage forcing back a grimace at the manner of address. “I have to commend your… preparation, but I’ll need more time to review this information in detail with my team before agreeing to it.”

Murmurs of assent echoed around the room.

“Of course,” Armitage said, bowing his head in acknowledgment.

In his head, he had envisioned a triumph, and the actual response left him deflated. It stood to reason that he had not earned their trust yet, but it still rankled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rose lean over Leia’s shoulder to sneak a glance at the total projected savings still pulled up on her holopad screen. Her eyes widened, and Leia turned to her and nodded knowingly.

At least he had impressed someone.

Attendees began to filter out of the room, most of them pointedly ignoring him and talking lowly amongst themselves, but Leia walked right over to him.

“Some of these wool-heads want to play it down, but you’ve done a superb job here, Armitage,” she said quietly. “I’m giving it the go-ahead when it comes to a vote in leadership council, and I know they will, too. I know good work when I see it. Well done.” She patted him on the shoulder, making him flinch, and she ambled away.

The interaction left Armitage stunned from all angles.

There could be no doubt of his work’s clarity or accuracy, his standard set to perfection from the start in any task he undertook. But, to have been commended in such straightforward terms, in so casual a manner, left him speechless.

It broke something in him, took his understanding of how reality operated and ripped it down the middle.

The last time Armitage had received praise, it had been in the form of an approving glance from Admiral Sloane, who had taken interest in Armitage’s career, on graduating top of his class in officer training school. His father had been there, too, and hadn’t even bothered to look in Armitage’s direction.

His throat closed up at the memory of Leia’s hand on his shoulder, and he struggled to swallow.

“Is it true? About the money?”

Rose’s voice jolted Armitage back to the present.

“Of course, it is,” he replied, grateful for the distraction. “I triple-calculated everything to the cent.”

“No, I mean…” Her brows furrowed. “It’s just so much.”

Pulling his shoulders back and facing her, he said, “You shouldn’t be so surprised. The incompetence of the coding system you employed here was _breathtaking.”_

Unfazed, she studied him. “All that time. You really were doing something.”

“What did you _think_ I was doing? Putzing around your mainframe and chuckling at the great joke of it all?”

“I didn’t—”

He rolled his eyes and scoffed. He ought to get used to it, this prejudice against his character that would always loom like a shadow over anything he would ever do for these people.

“Well, you did a good job,” she said as if accusing him of it, scowling and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Thank you,” he shot back with venom.

It _hurt,_ an unprecedented ache opening up in his chest at her compliment, its delivery notwithstanding. He short-circuited, blinking like an idiot, watching her expression transition from aggressive to confused.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asked, tentatively reaching a hand out to him.

Armitage twisted his arm away, snarling, “Fine.”

“All…right? Well, I’m going to get something to eat,” she muttered before walking away, leaving Armitage no option but to follow.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated and are reflected in this chapter. Please review them and proceed accordingly.

“I didn’t spend days pouring over your mainframe code just to finance a soiree.”

The mess hall rumbled with the barely-controlled chaos of lunchtime. Armitage preferred to grab something portable and go back to his quarters to eat and continue working, but Leia had approached him and Rose before he could dash away.

Leia now aimed a _look_ at him from across the table, Rose stifling a giggle, and for the life of him Armitage couldn’t decipher what exactly was funny about the situation.

“Relax, Hux,” Leia said. “This is the first time we’ve been able to enjoy the fruits of our labor, and it’s all because of your hard work. Live a little.”

The ‘fruits of their labor’ meaning the eradication of his own life’s work in the First Order. The thought grated against him, but he chose to let it go. That old anger had no place in this new life.

“Besides, there’s plenty of work waiting for you afterward. I’m giving you the tarmac schedule and med-personnel on-call schedules next.”

Standing up from their table, Leia left the hall, walking with her cane in her usual stately grace. Several stunned stares flicked back and forth between where he and Rose remained seated and Leia’s retreating form, but none were as taken aback as Armitage.

Had she just… _winked_ at him?

He ground his teeth. Of all the ways to waste precious resources, this had to be the most ill-advised. They should be doubling down on training both diplomats and fighters, their attention laser-focused on solidifying their hold on former First Order territories. But, with the savings from Armitage’s new scheduling system, Leia wanted to throw a _party._

Unconscionable.

“You really have a grudge against fun, don’t you?” Rose remarked, lifting a spoonful of broth to her mouth.

Armitage glanced down at his own bowl and shook his head, rubbing his eyes tiredly and his shoulders slumping. _“Fun_ is a distraction.”

“That’s… kind of the point?”

“Distraction leads to failure.”

Rose gaped at him. “So fun leads to failure, by your logic.” She shook her head, and through an incredulous smile, said, “You’re crazy.”

“You’re entitled to your opinions,” Armitage fired back, his sour mood only worsening the longer this conversation went on.

“My incorrect opinions, you mean.”

Her smile had only grown wider, and Armitage distinctly got the impression she was mocking him.

“Obviously,” he deadpanned, wincing at another mouthful of tasteless broth.

“Is he human or droid?” Rose asked no one in particular. “No one knows!”

Still the playful tone, but he didn’t bother to respond. Droids operated with efficiency. He could only wish he had been brought into the world as a machine—then he wouldn’t have to deal with the pesky emotions and inconveniences of living.

As if sensing his pensive turn of thoughts, Rose brought him back. “Maybe this party will change your mind. We know how to have a good time.”

He only huffed at her, before pushing the still full bowl of broth away, unable to stomach a single bite more. “I won’t be attending.”

Rose shrugged. “I heard Leia got us bantha steaks. You’ll be missing out. I know how much of a struggle it is for you to have gone without a proper meal for so long.”

Another attempt at goading him, but he couldn’t help his eyes flicking over to her at the mention of bantha steaks. “I don’t believe you.”

“It would be nice to sit through a meal for once without you turning your nose up at everything.”

Several nasty comebacks sprang to his mind, but he ignored them. This sort of event would probably be a first come, first serve sort of thing, so the likelihood of ordering a droid to bring a helping to his quarters looked slim. Perhaps he would brave the frivolity for one night. It would be worth it, to eat without having to force the food down his throat.

Armitage had serious doubt as to the cook’s capabilities, every meal he’d ever had in this place serving as evidence, but the chance of a quasi-decent meal was too tempting. Even the thought of overdone bantha steak now appealed to him.

Alas, how far he had fallen.

***

Rose’s knock at his door on the night of the party startled Armitage from his distracted musings.

As the first social outing of his career with the Resistance, the evening’s approach had brought Armitage to a place of unease.

A silly party like this, in and of itself, wouldn’t normally cause the internal writhing Armitage now battled. He had attended all kinds of social functions as a high-ranking official within the First Order, quite at home among other elite members of leadership and various ambassadors. Shows of wealth and power often proved useful tools in winning dignitaries to their side, as well as the pledge of funds, and Armitage had even found such gatherings enjoyable from time to time, depending on the company.

What bothered him now, and filled him with a sense of dread, were memories of the parties he’d attended _before_ receiving rank. When his identity had only been that of a serving boy, the bastard son of a kitchen maid and an otherwise married commandant.

_The tinkling of glass falling to the floor, and the terror of making a mistake in front of his father. The crass jokes made at his mother’s expense, his helpless fury mingling with fear._

_A bald admiral laughing and ordering him to lick the floor clean. Looking to his father for help, for anything, and finding nothing there but a sneer that could have been chiseled out of carbonite._

_Dropping to his knees, tears starting to roll down his cheeks, his only option to obey. His father’s heavy footfalls as he crossed over to him and yanked him up from the floor, screaming ‘useless weakling’ in his face. Each blow from his father’s hand a blossoming pain, not just to his body, but also to his heart._

_Burning shame._

The deaths of that admiral and his father had been a sweet revenge, a savage joy, the intoxication of power in those moments an ecstasy. But when those moments passed, Armitage had just been an empty man with blood on his hands.

Metaphorical blood, anyway. Those deaths had been clean—a blaster shot to the chest and a slow death by poison—but they had remained a stain on him, one that no amount of scrubbing could ever absolve him of.

Walking behind Rose, he pieced back together his steely countenance as she chattered, practically bouncing with cheer at the prospect of the party. Although her exact words didn’t register with him, her presence acted as an anchor to reality, especially when the noise from the mess hall began to filter down the corridor.

A retractable wall had been thrown open to the evening air on the far side of the building, the dim lighting and music mixing with the hubbub of partygoers to create something of an atmosphere. Armitage decided he didn’t hate it.

Easily the most casual event Armitage had ever attended, gratitude sprang up inside him that he didn’t have anything nicer to wear. If he had, he would have been embarrassingly overdressed.

Several acquaintances accosted Rose, and Armitage side-stepped them to reach the buffet.

The bantha steaks smelled _amazing,_ and Armitage’s mouth watered as he filled his plate. Picking his way through a surprisingly impressive array of food, he then made his way to their customary table at the back of the hall. Most others sat outside, enjoying the cooler evening air of the forest, but Armitage automatically sought solitude instead.

Just as he tucked a napkin onto his lap and muttered to himself, “Finally, some delicious kriffing food,” he heard Rose’s infectious laugh, and looked up to see her sitting down across from him.

His face flushed at the warmth in her eyes and something flipped in his chest uncomfortably, but he recovered himself and attacked his steak.

Armitage closed his eyes as he bit into the first bite. Perfectly seared, well-seasoned. A miracle.

“Told you,” she said with another laugh, before digging in herself.

Another few bites in and Armitage was just thinking about how a glass of snowgrape wine would have made the ideal compliment to the meal when Rose interrupted his thoughts.

“Some people are going swimming at the water hole in a bit.”

He swallowed. “I’m nearly done. If you’ll escort me back to my quarters, you can return and enjoy the party more fully.”

“Do you know how to swim?”

Armitage took note of the devious gleam in her eye. “Of course. I have extensive survival training in all terrains.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, but have you ever gone swimming for fun?”

_This_ again. Who swam for fun? A soldier swam to hide his scent markers from enemies in pursuit, or to infiltrate a frontline from an amphibious approach.

He brushed her off and carried on with his meal.

Ignoring her own food, she studied him with a furrowed brow. “How old were you when you joined the First Order?”

Armitage nearly choked.

A trap of some kind, to be sure, but _why?_ What did it matter to her, and to what end? Armitage had been reduced to almost nothing already, stripped of all authority, all titles, but she wanted to somehow drag him down further?

On top of that, what good would it do to tell her he had been born into it? Raised from infancy in it, every hard-won ounce of knowledge and skill he had ever gleaned steeped so deeply in First Order policy and propaganda that there was almost nothing left of _him_ at all?

And that he had been glad of it?

His food turned to ash in his mouth.

“I've changed my mind. I would like to go back to my quarters now,” he replied stiffly, pushing his plate away.

Concern crossed her features.

“But—”

“I’ll wait for you to finish.”

“I didn’t mean—” Rose started again, but stopped when she saw the glare Armitage now leveled at her. “O-okay, I guess.”

He could only pick at the food remaining on his plate, his stomach upset. The walk back to his quarters was stony silent, but when they reached his door, she turned to him, just like she had the first time, all those days ago.

A different fire lit her from within, though, not the teary-eyed anger from before. This time, it was the spark of determination.

“Maybe I can show you the water hole some other time.”

Patience already stretched thin, his initial instinct was to sneer and slam the door in her face again, but as he looked down at her, something softened inside him.

With a sudden clarity, he saw in her upturned face the lack of malice, of artifice, that he had encountered everywhere else. Short-circuiting, the word ‘fine’ tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it, and in an attempt to course-correct, he reached over her shoulder and entered the code to his room on the keypad, closing the door behind him in a blur.

The hopeful twist of her smile at his response haunted him all night, reminding him of a phrase that had proven true time and again:

_Kindness is a well-concealed dagger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VENT SESH.
> 
> Apparently, all the references I make of Hux's past in this fic are canon (from the comics) and thus, I’ve come to the conclusion that SW is obsessed with meaningless suffering and death for abuse victims. It’s hard to wrap my mind around it and everything that the events in TROS has meant for these beloved characters. 
> 
> Sorry, just… I’m heartbroken still and extremely salty about it. Don’t mind me.
> 
> ┻━┻ ︵ヽ(`Д´)ﾉ︵ ┻━┻


	11. Chapter 11

  


“You know what you are? A prickle plum.”

Armitage sighed heavily, setting down his holopad and rubbing his temple. “To what are you referring?”

The broom closet Leia had given Armitage for an office did what it had to do—namely, provide a space for Armitage to work outside of his quarters— and little else. With two people, sometimes it got a little cramped.

“Tough and prickly on the outside but, once you peel back the outer skin, soft and sweet on the inside,” she said, self-satisfied with her wit.

Armitage kept a cool expression, but his mind reeled. In his old life, speaking to him in such a familiar manner would have resulted in immediate demotion, if not worse.

“And you want to ‘peel back’ my outer skin?” he clarified.

“To see your mushy, soft center? Oh, yeah,” she joked, scrunching her nose.

Armitage pursed his lips, fighting the warm sensation her smile gave him, and turned back to his work.

“You’ll be disappointed, I’m afraid.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m rotten to the core.” No longer a joke, he watched her now crestfallen face out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Change of heart?” he remarked, keeping his tone casual.

Rose mused, clearly remembering the same conversation from the mess hall that first day, not so long ago. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Then she froze, and Armitage followed her line of sight to his hand, to where the crescent sliver of a scar still marked his forefinger.

Rose tore her eyes away, but the mood in the room altered considerably, weighed down by their history of pain and struggle. 

He should say something, and would have, if only there was anything to say. The moments of their shared past were like his scar—time would heal it over, to an extent, but could never change what had happened. Memories were stubborn things.

They were quiet for the next several hours, and Armitage figured Rose was trying to reconcile their current fragile camaraderie with her own loss. It wasn’t his business, it never would be, and he didn’t interrupt her thoughts. 

Whatever she decided was up to her, and her alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to britinthewoods for the lovely moodboard! 😁💕


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags are still being updated, just so all are aware. Thanks for reading 😁💕

  


Armitage’s ‘office’ lacked enviro-controls, apparently being a tiny enough space not to have warranted the trouble of wiring it in, and after only a few sweltering minutes of discomfort, Rose had popped up from her chair, grabbed his sleeve, and dragged him outside, muttering something about ‘hotter than the surface of Mustafar’ and ‘taking one kriffing day off of work’.

With only a moment to spare, Armitage managed to snag his holopad on the way out. Despite Rose’s personal beliefs about work, he _did_ have things to do.

Day had barely broken, but even in the soft morning light the air shimmered with heat. At least out in the open a stray breeze blew now and again.

Tree roots crisscrossed the path Rose pulled him down, the soil well-worn from constant foot traffic. Someone more predisposed toward enjoying natural aesthetic than Armitage would have admired the way this planet’s sun peeked through the canopy overhead, the sounds of wild-life stirring around them, the rich palette of jewel-bright flowers just now unfurling against the backdrop of green. It seemed that _everything_ about this planet stood in stark contrast to his prior life aboard a Star Destroyer.

Rose ducked under an overhanging branch and held it aside for him as he stepped through, the path opening up to reveal a secluded oasis. A pool of turquoise water rippled gently, light bouncing off the walls of a cave at the far end of the pool that extended out over it, vines trailing down from the rock face and touching the water.

Armitage’s eyes widened as he took in the scene, admiring each lovely new detail, but he composed himself before turning back to Rose, who had in the meantime kicked off her workboots and peeled off her jumpsuit. Stripping down to her basics with a determined set to her face, she then strode out into the water and swam to the very middle of the pool and stilled, floating there with her eyes closed.

Shock froze Armitage to the spot, understanding, in a detached way, that he would never be rid of this image now indelibly stamped in his memory. He gripped his holopad helplessly, his mind playing it over and over again, staring at the pile of her clothing on the ground.

“You have to at least get your feet wet,” Rose’s warning voice carried to him over the water.

Snapping back to himself, he looked down at his own workboots, also a size too big for him, and frowned, discomfort coiling in his gut at the thought of doffing even his _shoes_ in front of another living person.

“I think I’ll just—”

“Armitage!”

Scowling, he bent down to unlace them, his fingers uncooperative. Finally tugging them off, he rolled his socks off, too, folding them neatly and placing them inside one of the boots. Thinking ahead, he cuffed his pant hems several times more, inwardly grimacing at the thought of sodden fabric flapping at his ankles.

The earth under his feet was cool, but prickly with scattered rocks and twigs, and he wiggled his toes, trying to digest the sensory information, unsure of what to make of it. He scanned the area, his gaze lighting on a tree trunk with a large root that jutted out over the water, and carefully picked his way over to it. His holopad in hand, he scrambled up and threw one leg over the root, slowly relaxing against the trunk and allowing his feet to dip into the water up to the ankle.

His eyes closed and he leaned his head back, an ease settling over him, unfamiliar but… pleasant.

Rose remained quiet, still drifting in the water.

Opening his eyes, he blinked a few times and huffed a sigh before turning to his holopad and pulling up his work on the screen. There were schedules to finalize, new net gains to calculate, a presentation to throw together for the meeting next week to update leadership on his projects—

He heard a sniffle.

Looking up, he saw Rose’s features twisted in sadness, and realized with a jolt that she was crying. Immediately his eyes darted back to his holopad, but he couldn’t re-center his attention on his work.

He debated addressing the tears. Social propriety probably demanded it, even if just an inquiry as to her wellbeing, but Armitage had a difficult time imagining a scenario in which Rose would _want_ him to ask. On the other hand, it could be something as simple as a stubbed toe, and in that case, he _should_ make sure she wasn’t injured.

“Is… everything all right?”

Another sniffle came back as an answer.

“Care to elaborate?” If she didn’t answer this time, Armitage could say he’d done his duty as a coworker and let the moment pass. No reason to press the issue, besides his preference to avoid situations like this one altogether.

“No,” she said, her voice thick with the tears.

“Suit yourself,” he replied casually, relieved to be released from this social obligation.

“The delegation team sent to Naboo got back yesterday,” she continued, in total disregard to her prior statement.

The delegation team sent to Naboo specifically to discuss and deliberate on the rehabilitation of stormtroopers formerly enrolled in the training program that had once been the crowning achievement of Armitage’s career.

Brain-washing, they called it. In his former life, he had called it ‘conditioning.’ Compartmentalizing sometimes made it easier for him to process. _That was your old life, that’s what happened then. This is your new life, and those things don’t matter anymore, so don’t dwell on them._

But they did matter. And he did dwell.

The dismantling and ‘rehabilitation’ of what he had thought of as a major contribution to the First Order, an army of soldiers so well-trained that they acted as a machine, lit a fire of anger in him. When it simmered its hottest, he would curse Leia Organa and her ‘second chances,’ curse the Resistance and its victory, curse the galaxy and all the stars in it that fate itself had turned against him and fashioned his very existence into a pathetic parody of what he used to be.

But underneath all of that ire lurked the shadows of his past, locked away and ignored until now, peeking through his meticulously crafted façade of control. Those memories mocked him, reminding him just how little he was worth, how ineffective and insubstantial he would always be. That even the success he did manage to wring out of his circumstances would only eventually be crushed to dust under the heel of someone else’s boot. That he deserved this humiliation.

Armitage flicked a glance in Rose’s direction, totally lost on how to respond to her and hoping her expression might clue him in, but she only stared absentmindedly into the distance.

“I’m aware,” he said as coolly as he could, deciding it the most diplomatic answer available, and quickly recognizing it as the wrong move when she shot him a miffed look. “But continue,” he added, against his better judgment.

Whatever her problem, it couldn’t be anything too serious. She wouldn’t be sitting with him in the hot air of the rain forest morning and taking a dunk in the water hole otherwise.

“Well, it’s just that Finn was with them, and…” she sighed. “We had a brief thing—”

“With the defected stormtrooper?!” he blurted, now fully invested in the conversation.

She cleared her throat. “Yeah. I, um, I kissed him once. And I thought there might be something between us. There were all the signs, but when he got back yesterday, I went right to him and he… patted me on the shoulder. And walked away. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.”

Armitage wrestled with several competing thoughts.

First, his confusion that she chose to tell him any of this. That she considered him someone to talk to and share personal business with. He struggled to locate the point in the timeline of their relationship where such a change occurred, and without his knowledge.

Second, the urge to comfort her.

Third, the bafflement that he _wanted_ to do so, and the conundrum of how to go about doing it, if he chose to move forward with that course of action.

His slim catalogue of reactions to such a situation provided little guidance. A word of encouragement seemed like empty platitude. Physical touch, as in a hug, he deemed out of the question, both because he personally shrank from it as a rule and because she would certainly not appreciate such a gesture from him, of all people.

“Well. I’m sure you’ll get over it soon enough,” he finally said. It came out more caustic than he intended, but honestly, she should know better than to expect much else from him.

Rose rolled her eyes. “Thanks.”

“The bastard never deserved you,” he murmured before he could catch himself, as he pulled up the numbers on his holopad screen again, almost in defensive maneuver. Mathematics, finance—these things he knew, predictable and uncomplicated.

“He’s not a bastard, he just… doesn’t feel the same way,” she explained, shrugging.

“I beg to differ,” he spat, gripping his holopad with white knuckles. He couldn’t stop, had lost control of his tongue. “Only an idiot would ever let you go.”

It dripped with vitriol, but all the harshness was for the trooper, not for her.

Rose sniffed again, looking up at him in bewilderment. “What…?”

“He never deserved you,” Armitage bit out, effectively ending the discussion. With a curt nod, he buried himself back in his work, praying she wouldn’t read too much into it.

He had only said what could be considered a proper consoling between colleagues, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this chapter, I literally laughed out loud and said to myself, "I love him, but he is just so bad at this." 
> 
> Poor Armitage 🤣


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was one of the first to be outlined when the idea of this story came to me. I've been waiting a long time to write it. Again, tags have been updated to reflect content.

Rose’s customary knock on his door signaled the start of another workday.

The rest of yesterday's morning at the water hole had concluded with no further incident, and once others had started to arrive at the pool with similar thoughts of cooling down in the heat of the day, Rose had nodded to Armitage and they had left.

He had refused to look at her as she stepped out of the water, blushing as he used his socks to brush off the dirt now clinging to each foot, thoughts torn between her utter lack of modesty and the displeasure of slipping dry socks onto his wet and dirty feet. All this trouble could hardly be worth mere moments of refreshment, he had grumbled inwardly.

Armitage now looked at the time on his holopad, a little surprised that Rose had arrived ten minutes earlier than her typical six o’clock on the dot, and preparing some good-natured jibe, he opened the door.

Not Rose.

Some nameless grunt Armitage only knew by face grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close and leering at him.

“Hey. You’re late.”

The situation didn’t bode well at all, but Armitage couldn’t jump to conclusions. Rose might have taken ill, or been called to some other duty for the day. This rough handling didn’t necessarily portend further violence either, even though his instincts screamed at him to _run, run, run._

“Shall we get moving then?” Armitage said, holding his arms up in an effort to de-escalate the situation.

Shoving his face even closer to Armitage’s, the man breathed out, “We’ve got other plans for you today.”

So. Violence, then.

Armitage slipped his hand into the man’s grip and pulled back hard on his thumb with a _crack._ Crying out in pain and surprise, the man released Armitage’s collar to nurse his dislocated thumb, and Armitage scrambled away, only to run into a wall of five more angry-looking workers.

Years of hand-to-hand combat training gave Armitage an edge in a fight, and his spirit of survival at all costs helped him where physical strength could not. One assailant could be dealt with easily, possibly even two or three, depending on their size and capability. But five? His chance at escaping dwindled down to nothing. He could recognize a lost cause when he saw one.

The consequences of what would happen next didn’t matter. Either they’d kill him or let him live with the scars. _Enduring_ it mattered.

The first blow to his stomach doubled him over, driving the air out of his lungs and leaving him gasping. The second kicked his knee out from under him and sent him to the ground. Then his face, a fist connecting with his mouth and sending stars shooting across his vision.

The kicks fell like rain, and he could only curl up and cover his head with his arms.

“Hey!”

The blows lightened.

_“Hey!”_

They scattered, like training yard bullies always did, and Armitage heard someone running over to him.

He could read the fear plainly on Rose’s face as she knelt down and reached out to him, but he flinched away, wincing at the sharp movement.

“Are you okay?” she asked, scanning him for serious injury.

He scoffed in response to her, knowing his voice would waiver if he spoke.

Something tickled his temple, and he swiped at it with a trembling hand. Just blood.

“Come on, let’s get you to the medbay.” Rose said, standing up.

“No,” he barked.

“What? Why?”

The image of her half-dragging him through the entire kriffing base for everyone to see his humiliation scalded his pride.

“I’m fine.” He fought to keep his voice steady as he tried to stand, too, faltering at the jolt shooting up from his knee when he tested it with his weight.

Immediately jumping forward, she grabbed his arm to support him, but he ripped it out of her grasp and leaned on the wall. With a grimace, he swallowed his cry of pain as the injuries to his ribs and knee screamed.

He could make it to his room just down the hall without her help.

Rose followed closely as he limped along. His hand clutched his side, every inhale agonizing, one or two ribs definitely broken.

Before he had a chance to close the door, she snuck into the room behind him, her hands out and ready to catch him if he fell.

He despised the gesture.

Still relying heavily on the wall, he said in his best tone of nonchalance, “Think I’ll take the day off.”

The corner of her mouth twitched up, but she stifled her smile and nodded gravely. “Of course.” Eyes not leaving his face, and she continued, “That was wrong. That shouldn’t have happened.”

“So much for your superior Resistance ideology,” he gritted out, still in enormous pain.

Rose frowned. “Those thugs don’t represent our _‘ideology’.”_

“Those thugs are the people your precious Resistance harbors—”

“The Resistance fights for their _freedom,_ Armitage, not for the power to control them and stop them from making bad choices—”

He met the steel in her voice with his own. “You can’t seriously believe that’ll work in the long run.”

“My sister died believing it and I would, too!” 

Suddenly eager to wound, he verbally lashed out. “Oh, yes. Your sister’s martyrdom just makes your little rebel heart quiver with joy, doesn’t it?”

_SMACK._

In utter shock, he brought his hand up to his stinging cheek, and open-mouthed, turned back to look at her.

A perverse satisfaction reared up in him at the fury contorting her features, balling her hands up into fists.

“Do it again,” he ordered.

Anger receded into confusion. Disgust. 

“Again,” he repeated. _“Harder.”_

A new determination lit her face and, winding up, her open palm struck his already smarting cheek, leaving his eyes watering.

He coached himself to breathe through it, letting the familiarity of this particular pain remind him of his wretched life’s true worth—a stinging slap to the face, a pair of bruised ribs, an aching knee.

Slowly he raised his eyes to hers, and relished the exact moment when she realized with horror what she had done in her anger. Whose violence she had just imitated.

She stormed out of the room. That second blow would eat at her, he already knew, keep her up at night. He’d won this round, and the darker part of his soul crowed happily. So much for her moral high ground.

Collapsing on his bed the instant the door closed behind her, he closed his eyes and allowed a small whimper to escape him. In an attempt at distraction, he tried to picture some other time, a different and perhaps less painful memory, but it only plastered the image of Rose in her basics against a backdrop of bright blue water in his mind’s eye, and he didn’t want to remember that.

Because that hurt, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did he deserve the smack? Sure. Should she have hit him? Probably not. Relationships are never easy. *sigh*


	14. Chapter 14

Rose didn’t show up the following morning.

At five minutes after six, Armitage limped over to the door and peeked out into the hallway, half-expecting her to be waiting there, cross with him but still reporting for duty. Not a soul in sight.

The walk to his office daunted him, and although he knew from one standpoint that skiving off work that day would demonstrate weakness to his assailants, on the other hand if would be foolhardy of him to leave the safety of his quarters alone.

Falling back to his cot, he pulled his holopad over, deciding to work from the comfort of his bed and give his aching knee a day’s rest. Besides that, his head still throbbed, and any inhalation other than the shallowest of breaths sent shooting pain down his side. No need to push the limits of his endurance.

The second day dawned and still no Rose, but he couldn’t waste another day in bed. Finally summoning a med-droid for a low-dose stim shot to ease his various injuries, he then submitted a formal request for a meeting with Leia. Most would consider the gesture unnecessary, Leia herself especially, but he wanted to be certain she would be in her office if he made the effort to see her. Wandering around the base looking for the general without an escort would prove an invitation for trouble from several fronts.

The moment he arrived at her office, Leia’s eyes flicked down to his gait and the limp he tried to hide, but remained silent on the subject, telling him without words that she knew full well what had occurred. Armitage guessed her silence on the matter to be some sort of test of his moral fiber, an opportunity for Leia to judge his character. Would he snitch? Make demands for punishment?

None of that would benefit him in the long run, so instead he cut right to the chase.

“General, I apologize for the abruptness, but I haven’t had a chaperone sent the past two days, and came to request the duty be reassigned. I’m certain it’s just an oversight, but I do need to be able to move freely in order to continue my work.”

“Your probation period was cleared by the leadership council a week ago,” she replied, frowning. “Rose should have told you.”

Armitage’s brows shot up. “I was not notified.”

“Hm. Well, at any rate, you’ve graduated. Congratulations, Hux.”

“Ah. Well.”

This turn of events deserved some analysis. Motive unknown, Rose had collected him each morning for the past week of her own accord, the past two days notwithstanding. If she still distrusted him and disagreed with the leadership council, he couldn’t begrudge her precaution. But what if she had done it for some other reason? And if some measure of goodwill toward him had guided that reason, then…

Then he had single-handedly ruined what could have been a burgeoning amicable relationship.

Regret for his harsh words flooded him, his heart sinking into his stomach. He knew he'd been in the wrong for insulting her the way he did the moment he'd done it, but with fresh remorse he realized just how cruel he'd been.

Connections with others, in his experience, tended to fall into one of two categories, either competition or subservience, anything else foreign territory. He supposed etiquette now demanded he do… _something_ to repair the relationship, but the thought of an apology made him cringe.

So be it.

Clearing his throat, and hating himself more with each word, he said, “It appears then, that I may have upset a colleague.” Stars, how he despised this, but he swallowed and clenched his fists against the discomfort. “I find myself in need of… credits. In order to make an apology.”

A gift. That should do.

Leia’s expression of surprise irritated him, but he gritted his teeth and willed himself to listen quietly to her inevitable refusal.

“When we seized the First Order’s accounts, we liquidized their assets and redistributed it to the governing bodies of systems affected by military occupation. War reparations.”

“Yes, yes, but surely some sort of loan could be arranged, just this once—”

“We didn’t include your personal accounts in the redistribution,” she interrupted, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I transferred those into an account under my name for the time being.”

His mouth dropped open.

“We’re compensating you for your work here, too. It’s not much, but still. You have full liberty of the base now, so I feel it’s an appropriate time to transfer those funds back to you.”

His earnings under the First Order had not been extravagant by any stretch of the imagination, but had built up to a respectable amount so as to ensure a comfortable cushion to live on for several years, if used conservatively.

Any vision of his future up until this moment had only been that of quasi-indentured servitude to the Resistance, the rest of his life to be spent in penance for his crimes against them, but _now,_ there existed a future for him in which he left this place a free man.

He could only shake his head, unable to even meet her gaze. In no version of reality did he deserve this. The warm smile Leia graced him with cut him like a knife, and he struggled to maintain composure, unable to bear the humiliation of tearing up in front of a former sworn enemy, especially one who now gave him the gift of his own life back.

He swallowed and sniffed, fighting hard to control enough to speak. To thank her.

“I’ll take care of the details, but everything should be ready for you by the end of the week. Will that work for you?”

“Yes, of course,” he managed to say around the burning at the back of his throat.

Steepling her fingers under her chin and leaning forward conspiratorially, Leia continued. “On a more interesting note, how exactly are you planning on making _your_ apology?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was nice of Leia, wasn't it? 
> 
> More Rose next chapter, promise! Hux has to make amends, after all 😁


	15. Chapter 15

Without Rose as a social buffer, from Armitage’s usual seat in the mess hall he could detect the atmosphere shifting toward hostile.

Every so often he glanced up from his holopad screen and scanned the room, ignoring the pointed looks directed his way, and waited for Rose to walk through the door. He hadn’t a clue when she preferred to eat breakfast, and so he had risen early, committed to a stakeout, with the wrapped parcel sitting on the table to his left serving as a reminder of his purpose.

When she finally stepped into view, her gaze almost immediately connected with his, but she broke eye contact with an upturned nose, turning back to the small group of… coworkers, he presumed, possibly friends, who had entered with her.

The uncomfortable fluttering in his belly in anticipation of what he intended to do worsened a hundredfold, palms now sweating and his heart battering against his ribcage, but none of that stopped him from grabbing the parcel and bolting from his seat the second he laid eyes on her.

With his pulse bounding so loud he could feel it in his ears, he approached the table she and her assortment of acquaintances had chosen. Before he could say a word, Rose rounded on him, her mouth set in a grim line, as if expecting the unpleasantness about to occur. Even in the crosshairs of her fury and his nerves on the brink of panic, his heart had the indecency to flop over in his chest when her eyes met his again from her seat on the bench.

“I owe you an apology,” he blurted out.

She pursed her lips and waited.

The words stuck in his throat, despite rehearsing the phrases a thousand times in his room, despite all the mental energy spent selecting the ones most likely to mollify her. He'd chosen to keep it brief, succinct, and to give her gift and leave as quickly as possible. Perhaps he might never earn back her good graces after the way he’d treated her, but at the very least he wanted to prevent enmity.

“My behavior toward you the other day was unacceptable, and the things I said were out of line. I hope you’ll receive this as a token of my sincerity.”

He held out the parcel to her, and she hesitated only a moment before curiosity won out. Tearing the wrapping and revealing a dark green bottle, and she spun it around to read the label. The silence at the table made it all so much worse, an audience for his humiliation, but he kept his eyes only on her, to gauge her reaction, to see if his effort met her approval.

Her eyes widened as she read. “Snowgrape wine? But this—”

Clearing his throat and swallowing with some difficulty, he interrupted her. “I understand it’s something of a specialty export from Hays Minor.” 

Her homeworld. He’d known since the day his men had captured her aboard the _Supremacy,_ before that zealot Holdo had ripped the ship to shreds, when he’d glanced down at the pendant of Haysian smelt around her neck and called her people vermin. The scar he now bore on his finger served as a reminder of punishment for such an insult, although he deserved much worse.

“Please, enjoy it,” he concluded, hoping such memories wouldn’t also spring to her mind. 

With a polite incline of his head, he turned away, his joints suddenly stiff. Welcome relief had just started to dawn on him, the ordeal now concluded, when a tug on his sleeve stopped him.

“Wait.”

He whipped around, shocked to see Rose holding his cuff, some internal battle playing out on her face.

“Thanks, and… I accept your apology.” She dropped his sleeve, her cheeks coloring.

He gave her a small nod of acknowledgement, and without another word took his leave. Only once he made it to his office did he permit himself the ghost of a smile, and then he sat down to work.

Not much later, he glanced up from his screen to stretch his neck and startled at the sight of Rose leaning against the doorway.

“Hey,” she said, casual despite having stood there silently for stars knew how long before Armitage had noticed her. “You have plans tonight?”

Hiding his surprise, he threw her a wearied look. She knew perfectly well he did not 'have plans', did not _ever_ 'have plans'. But this… it could be a sign of progress, his attempt at making amends coming to fruition. For once in his life, he’d rather have salvaged one strained acquaintance than have lost the acquaintance altogether.

Keeping her arms crossed, he recognized a guardedness about her he hadn’t seen since his first days on the base.

“I happen to be free this evening.”

She scuffed the floor with the toe of her boot. “Well, I don’t even want to know how much you spent on that wine—”

A considerable amount.

“—but I know how much you like fancy things, so I figured I could share it with you. If you want.”

Armitage had not prepared for such a response. The cold shoulder, he predicted. Collegial acknowledgement when passing in the halls, he only hoped for. Resuming their fragile camaraderie surpassed all expectations.

Speechless, he processed the turn of events. How, _how_ could these people have such forgiving natures as to take every cruel word, every past violent act he’d thrown at them and _still_ offer him another chance?

At his continued silence, she backtracked. “Or… not. Guess I’ll—”

“Yes.” He didn’t say it so much as it fell out of his mouth.

“Huh?”

“Yes, I would like that.”

Her eyes shone a little brighter. “Okay. You want to meet here?”

A curt nod.

“Is six okay?”

“Fine,” he answered, his tone clipped.

A laugh burst out from her, then she shook her head and bit her lip as Armitage blushed, unsure if she was making fun of him.

“See you then,” she said before leaving the doorway.

He had to wonder— what in the blazes had he just agreed to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A dateeee 
> 
> (~￣▽￣)~


	16. Chapter 16

Stepping, or rather squeezing, out of the tiny shower in his quarters, Armitage fussed with his hair, trying to comb it into an approximation of the slicked-back style he used to wear with little success. Turning his face this way and that, he lamented to his reflection once again the thick ginger beard that now covered half his face.

The last-minute change of plans for that evening prevented him from perusing the base for shaving supplies, but he still wanted to look somewhat presentable when he went to meet Rose. 

A sudden aggressive knock sounded at his door, sending a bolt of fear through him. The last time an unexpected visitor showed up on his doorstep, they’d only brought trouble, and the…  _ unpleasant _ encounter still left him a little shaken. Shutting his eyes against the memories, he shook his head to clear his thoughts and coached himself to take deep breaths.

Throwing on his clothes, he opened the door.

Rose pushed past him into the room, clearly agitated, forcing Armitage backwards. Rounding on him, she demanded—

“Why did you apologize to me?”

When he recovered from his surprise, he straightened his shoulders and offered, “As you know, I was clearly in the wrong. An apology was necessary to rectify the situation.”

“And what situation was that?” she persisted.

Loath to rehash the sequence of events that had demanded that apology, he responded, “I don’t understand what you’re trying to accomplish here.”

“Tell me  _ why.” _

“I  _ have _ told you  _ why—” _

She threw her head back with a growl of frustration. “That’s not the real reason! I need to know why you, Armitage Hux, bothered to swallow your stupid pride to tell me you’re sorry.”

“As I said before—”

“Oh, come on.”

“This is ridiculous, you won’t even—”

“Answer the question!”

“—haven’t the slightest idea what you’re—”

_ “Armitage!” _

His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply in a frustration matching hers, clenching his jaw tightly. As if mustering her courage, Rose closed her eyes and let out a breath she must have been holding.

Finally, softly, she asked, “Do you have feelings for me?”

Eyes widening and mouth falling open, Armitage could only stare at her, breathless. Taking too long to find his voice, he forced out, “Of course not.”

“You’re lying,” she said with an astonished smile, her hand flying up to touch her lips.

“Am I some sort of joke to you?” he spat back, ignoring the sting of that very possibility.

“No. But you’re one hell of a puzzle.”

“And you’re trying to solve me?” he sneered.

Throwing her shoulders back, full of defiance, she glared up at him. “I’m  _ trying _ to see the bigger picture!”

“By accusing me of falling in love with you?” he threw at her acidly.

Both of them stilled, the words hanging in the air between them, the moment taut.

The shock on her face made something inside Armitage crumble, and he looked away. “Please leave.”

She didn’t move.

“Get out.”

“No.”

“What do you want from me?” he bit out through gritted teeth.

“I want to know what you’re feeling. Is that so impossible to wrap your mind around?” When he didn’t answer, she pressed on. “Because I feel like you’re pushing me away. Because you don’t want to deal with the things you’re feeling. Again.”

He scoffed, but before he could let fly the scathing remark dancing on the tip of his tongue, she cut him off.

“Don’t do it. Don’t be mean. You’re not allowed to hurt me just because  _ you’re  _ the one who’s hurting.”

His mouth snapped shut.

“You’re such an idiot sometimes. And it’s killing me,” she said, her voice beginning to waver, “because I can see how hard you’re trying to be good.”

Turning his back to her, he struggled to swallow. The truth of it struck him, flayed him open, revealing the lies he’d been telling himself for what they were.

“You try to hide it, how much you care about what people think of you—”

He whipped around. “I don’t give a  _ damn  _ what they think about me—!”

“You care what I think about you. Or else you wouldn’t have apologized.”

His face crumpled, the thickness in his throat almost choking him, and then Rose’s arms wrapped around his middle and time slowed.

As if from outside his own body, Armitage viewed the scene and recognized the warmth of it, could see how her embrace almost seemed to hold together the pieces of him that were falling apart on the inside. Her head against his chest, her dark hair… and his hand, hovering close enough to reach down and touch it—

Pushing away from her, he jolted backward, his shoulders colliding with the wall. Capable only of staring fixedly at a point somewhere off to the left, his legs gave way and he slid down the wall until he hit the floor. His brain fizzled, numbness spreading over him like a weighted blanket.

Distantly, he heard Rose calling to him, but he couldn’t answer, couldn’t respond in any way. Could only sit and stare as conscious thought dissolved, leaving behind only his body that told him,  _ you’re dying, you’re dying, _ but refused him the courtesy of following through.

Exhaustion registered next. Although Armitage couldn’t even hazard a guess at how much time had passed in this fugue state, he could surmise it’d been a while from Rose’s reclined position on his bed, tinkering with some small piece of machinery and wiring. When she noticed him watching, she scrambled over, kneeling on the ground next to him.

“Hey,” she said, her brows furrowed. “Are you all right?” She reached out as if to touch his shoulder, but then thought better of it.

“I have to work in the morning,” he managed to get out, his tone mechanical. “I should go to bed.”

Rose frowned and glanced down at her timepiece. “It’s only five-thirty…”

“Ah, yes. Well.”

Momentarily shocked, she then nodded with enthusiasm. “Sleep! Sleep is… good. Yeah. You should definitely get some rest before work.”

Her easy acceptance of his humiliating social glitch lit a spark of gratitude in him as he watched her make for the door. Before leaving, she glanced down at him over her shoulder.

“See you tomorrow.”

She left, and he remained there on the floor until his rear end went numb, and then he crawled into bed and didn’t fall asleep until the early hours of morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hug for Hux! ôヮô
> 
> Who then has a panic attack. 
> 
> Nobody's perfect.
> 
> (we cry for our sad, emotionally constipated space boy, who never got his wine date with Rose bc she got impatient)


	17. Chapter 17

Armitage had successfully beaten into submission all memory of the prior night’s debacle by the time he sat down at his desk the next morning.

Without a doubt, his social faux pas meant the conclusion of his relationship with Rose. The argument could be made that her intrusion into his quarters, her subsequent interrogation, and especially the nature of the questions applied to him had breached conventions of appropriate conduct _first,_ but Armitage could overlook all that. The physical contact could even be chalked up to excitement in the heat of conflict, an offense easily forgiven, if a little odd and directly opposite to anything he might have anticipated.

His reaction to it remained the problem.

Well aware of his own shortcomings as a person, this lapse of control over himself presented new depths to which he could fall. After such an embarrassing display of weakness he could reasonably expect Rose to never speak to him again, unless under duress. What a waste, to have put so much effort into repairing what shreds of mutual respect he’d clung to only for his ineptitude to ruin it all.

They hadn’t even gotten a chance to try that snowgrape wine.

At least this chain of events would lead to fewer disruptions of his working hours. Logically, to his inner balance as well. Less Rose meant fewer… _emotions_ to be dealt with. No more guilt, no more uncomfortable social obligations. Just work. If he could go about his business and keep his head down, he could limp along in anonymity until everyone else forgot he existed. An appealing thought.

A light rapping at the door startled him, but not more so than the vision of Rose stepping over the threshold, arms piled high with what looked like lunch for two.

“Hey!” she said breezily, striding over to his desk and plopping the food down, leaving him only a second to swipe his work out of the way to save it from being crushed. “I figured you would skip lunch if I didn’t bring it, so here it is.”

It seemed she’d made it her duty in life to shock him.

“Thank you,” he managed to force out, his voice tight.

“I know I kind of pulled the trigger a little fast yesterday, but my mom always said food makes an apology more appealing.”

At the small smile she flashed at him, Armitage’s stomach twisted into knots, but she quickly changed the subject to one of the cooks she’d befriended while she set out the spread. Recovering only enough to pick up the utensils she placed in front of him and make a show of cutting into a slab of overcooked meat, his thoughts wandered from her friendly chatter to the way she gestured with her hands as she spoke, the silly faces she made when telling a story. Her lips, how soft they looked, how expressive—

“Armitage?”

He almost dropped his knife and fork. “Yes. What?”

“Are you all right? You haven’t had a single bite.”

He glanced down at his plate and the single morsel he’d cut in all that time, hastily popping it into his mouth.

Approving, she continued her story, and although he couldn’t remember ever having thought this way about someone before, he supposed he could tolerate her company with ease, even found it generally pleasant. She possessed many admirable qualities, had an uncomplicated good-naturedness about her, and even when he refused to accept her help she always stood ready to offer it. Perhaps the universe smiled down on him today, for however brief a time, in allowing him to sit and fall into some measure of comfort with the pretty girl across from him—

“Hey, you sure you’re okay? You seem distracted.”

“Ah. Sorry,” Armitage blurted, resuming his cutting into the food with renewed vigor. “Go on.”

“I was just saying that—”

Stars above, even her hair was pretty. Dark and shiny, probably soft to touch. The style she wore today, drawn back just so, framed her face nicely and lent an air of sensible femininity.

Noticing a silence, Armitage snapped back to attention to find her studying him closely, her head tilted as if contemplating a riddle. She must have come to some answer, and she sat up a little straighter in her chair.

“Let me see your hand.”

He scowled. “What for?”

“What do you think I’m going to do, saw it off?” she joked, making a cutting motion in the air with her knife.

Shooting her a withering glare, he initially refrained, but as she insistently held out her one hand for his, he gave in with a roll of his eyes.

Before he could stop her, she lightly gripped his wrist and pulled off his glove to reveal the pale skin of his hand, his pulse quickening.

Turning it to the side, she found the crescent scar she’d marked him with all that time ago and traced it with her finger, sending shivers up Armitage’s spine.

“I’m not sorry for this,” she murmured.

“No, I suppose not,” he choked out.

Cool and gentle, her touch overwhelmed him. _No engine grease today,_ his brain unhelpfully supplied, before she laced her fingers in between his, their palms touching.

His heart stuttered painfully and Armitage wrenched his hand away, shoving his glove back on, his skin still tingling where she’d touched him. Clenching his fists in his lap, he desperately tried to calm his breathing.

Slumping back in her seat with a sigh, Rose changed tack.

“You know, I like your beard.”

_“What?”_

“Gives you a rugged look.”

“I beg your pardon?” His mind already spun in circles, overheating with all the sensory information it still tried to process, making it almost impossible to keep up with her.

“I bet, if you hadn’t been, you know, an _enemy_ and all, lots of girls would have their eyes on you.” She fought a grin that to Armitage only spelled mischief.

“Is that so,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“The worst part—or really, the best part—is that you’d have no idea.”

“Are you calling me obtuse?”

“Oh, Armie,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s sad, but true.”

“Don’t call me that.” Wearied, he pinched the bridge of his nose. The course of conversation had veered so many times in the last half-minute that he’d lost all hope of keeping up.

“Fine. What about just… Arm?”

“I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous.”

“… Tidge?”

“Is this really necessary?” His patience all but spent, he couldn’t help the frustration bleeding into his tone.

“Definitely. I have nicknames for all my friends. But, anyway, like I was saying—”

“Friends?” It came out caustic, and Armitage wished he could pull the word back from where it hung in the space between them.

She had fallen silent, her eyes raking over him, taking measure of him.

“It’s a good place to start, don’t you think?”

He didn’t have the slightest idea. Most, if not all, of his former colleagues would’ve jumped at the opportunity to shove him aside for a shot at personal glory or better social standing. He didn’t know where ‘friendship’ started _or_ ended.

Casting her a doleful glance, his inability to answer probably told her volumes more than he would have liked her to know.

“Let me see your hand again,” she said, once more holding hers out to him.

“No,” he sulked.

“Why?”

“I’d rather not.”

“I think that’s a lie,” she persisted.

He pinned her with a stare that used to make his subordinates quake in fear. “You assume too much.”

“I think I know you better than even _you_ do,” she fired back, equally frosty.

“And what is it, exactly, you think you know about me?” The moment the sentence left his mouth he regretted it, immediately certain he did not want to hear the answer.

“Okay, fine. Let’s do this. You want to kiss me. You have ever since I walked into this room.”

“I _never—!”_

“All you’ve done is stare at my mouth since I came in. You’re just… so out of touch with anything other than numbers, and… and financial projections that you don’t even realize what you want!”

Slack-jawed, Armitage could only scramble for purchase on the mountain of this discussion, so wildly out of his depth that language failed him.

Rose stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor, and rounded the desk, halting at his chair and gazing down at him with all the authority of a superior, eyes bright with honesty.

Shoving her hand into the space between them, she enunciated each word.

“Give me your hand.”

For all the worlds feeling like a child, he obeyed her, and watched as she peeled off his glove again. The shock of it didn’t hit him as hard this time, but when she bent at the waist and guided his bare hand to her face, holding it against her cheek, _that_ robbed him of air.

With her free hand, she reached out toward his own face and he flinched roughly, but she caught his wrist and brought the captive hand to her breastbone and held it there. Hesitating at first, she slowly brushed a few stray locks of hair that hung over his forehead before leaning in and placing a light kiss on his brow.

Armitage had lived through hardship, had survived extraordinary pain. He’d clawed his way up to the top of an empire and then watched as it crumbled to dust beneath his enemy’s heel. He’d trained, he’d fought, and bore the scars to prove it. Nothing, _nothing_ could break him now.

Nothing except for this. Except for her.

With a light pressure, she lifted his chin up to meet her eyes, and the tenderness in her face hurt him, carving its own scar into his heart that he knew would never heal.

“You’re not made of astromech. It’s okay to feel things sometimes.”

And then she left, the places on his body where she’d been touching him colder now in her absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Hux would call a literal panic attack a 'social faux pas.' Just... of course.
> 
> And for the record, *this* is the face I think of when I say Hux is 'scowling':
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> Hand touches and forehead kisses!!! 😆💕 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now kith  
> (╯3╰)

  


For a standard week, Rose kept him at a distance. The lack of contact left Armitage on unsure footing, vacillating between gratitude for the space and discomfort with the notion that perhaps at last she’d chosen to leave him alone for good. On the occasions that they did happen to encounter one another in passing, only her warm smile and gentle greeting convinced him that she bore him no ill will, despite everything.

After a particularly bad bout of insomnia, a malady as familiar to Armitage as the face in the mirror, he decided to trudge out into the hazy heat of morning to the water hole, just for a breath of fresh air.

Brushing a broad leaf aside and stepping out into the small clearing, he saw Rose standing in the shallows, her pants rolled up past her ankles, work boots and socks left on the ground.

He froze, but she’d already heard him, and when she turned around, she beamed at him.

“Taking a morning swim?” she asked playfully.

Armitage cleared his throat and pulled at the collar of his shirt. “No, just… taking a stroll.”

Stepping out onto dry land, Rose pulled her socks and boots back on and walked over to where he stood, immobilized.

“You should dip your feet in. It’s nice and cool.”

“Perhaps,” he replied carefully.

“I keep forgetting to ask you, but there’s a project I’ve been working on, and I was wondering if you could help me with it.”

Skeptical of both her project and her intentions, he only gave her the smallest of nods.

“Stop by my room this evening, if you want.” Reading the wariness in his countenance, she continued, “You’re really good with coding. If anyone can help me, it’s you.”

With a pat on his shoulder, she left, taking the trail back to base.

Deigning not to take her advice verbatim, he did permit himself a moment of quietude by the waterside, crouching down by the edge and reaching out to dip his hand beneath the surface of the pool, memorizing the way it rippled out from his movement and then settled, reflected sunlight dancing on the pale skin of his fingers.

Entrenched in work for the remainder of the day, the time for dinner came and went before he realized it. Indecision, a trait which he normally regarded with a healthy disdain, hindered each step he took in the direction of Rose’s quarters. The possibility of disappointing her by withholding his help warred with the instinct telling him he didn’t belong anywhere near her private accommodations, and even as he stepped up to her door, his hand poised to knock, he hadn’t fully made up his mind.

The metal panel whooshing open interrupted his internal battle.

“Hey! Come on in,” Rose gushed, her happy smile just comforting enough to relieve him of the fear of trespassing.

Stepping into her room, he fell quiet.

For a tiny room in the barracks, the atmosphere still had the quality of _home._ A homespun blanket lay folded on a cot similar to his own, posters of all colors and subjects brightened the walls, and instead of harsh fluorescents overhead, the light of a couple lamps softened the air. It smelled… _feminine,_ heady, and his stomach flopped in his belly from an acute awareness of how out of place he was in this sanctum.

“He’s over here,” Rose said, walking over to a small workbench scattered with pieces of wiring, gears, a variety of tools, and most notably, a little droid, powered-down and waiting.

Armitage took in the machine, clearly manufactured from odds and ends, but well put-together and clean despite that.

“I’ve been putting him together a little bit at a time, and I thought I finally had everything right, but when I power him up…”

She fiddled with her holopad and the droid flickered to life, swinging its head around to take stock of its surroundings, and when it recognized them for life forms, it spoke.

“Hello, I’m Endee-ee…ee Three…eeeee—”

With a twitch, it froze, continued glitching causing the machine to short circuit and its voice die out on the lingering vowel.

“I’ve gone over the programming a million times, but I just can’t figure it out. I’m thinking a fresh pair of eyes will do the trick. What do you think?” she asked, holding the holopad out to him.

Taking the device hesitantly, he glanced once more at her before perusing the program, but then, absorbed by the task, he sat down in her chair absentmindedly while pouring over the code, startling a little with how low the chair sat to the ground.

Focusing on such work as problem-solving allowed Armitage a chance to forget the world, gave him some measure of purpose, irrespective of how menial the task might be, and he savored the opportunity to prove himself useful to Rose.

“Oh, here,” he finally said, after several minutes of puttering on the screen. “It’s small, your programming is… quite good, but this one section here—and… done.”

He pressed the screen with a flourish, and the droid straightened.

“Hello, I’m Endee Three. How can I be of service?”

Armitage smiled down at the ND unit. “Perfect.”

Unable to help congratulating himself on a job well done, he stood up from the chair and admired the plucky droid with a little burst of pride.

“I can’t even stand how adorable you are right now.”

Before Armitage could react, Rose strode over to him and grabbed his collar, yanking him down to her height and crushing her lips against his.

Almost bruising in its fierceness, Armitage only hesitated for a breath before melting into it, throwing all the force of her kiss right back at her. His mouth moved against hers and _hunger_ roared to life inside him, his hands weaving through her soft hair almost of their own accord to get a better hold and press into her closer, harder. With Rose’s small, soft body now flush against his, the greedy and unskillful give and take he played with her lips roughened, hurting in the good way that pain sometimes could.

Needing air, they parted, the space between them filled with their unsteady panting, but the next moment Armitage jumped backward as if electrocuted, his adrenaline-addled brain running a parsec a minute.

Whatever look she now gave him, he didn’t want to see it, certain he would only find contempt, even disgust marring her pretty face for what she’d just done and who she’d done it with, but when he flicked his gaze up to her, he found neither of those.

She took a step toward him. “What’s wrong?”

He retreated from her. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I think I could take a guess,” she giggled.

“That was a mistake,” he insisted.

“Then it’s my mistake to make.” Rose entered his space again, looking up into his eyes with a shining honesty that wounded him. “Don’t push me away again. Please.”

He almost tripped over her chair in his effort to back away.

“Do be careful, sir!” ND-3 yelped in the background.

“Can you so easily forget what I’ve done?” Armitage whispered, his insides churning with cold dread, forcing the words out, needing her to hear them, to understand.

“If you could go back right now, would you?” she challenged him, once more closing the distance between them. “Right this minute, if you had the choice, would you leave and go back to work for the First Order?”

“No,” he replied, the answer far easier than he might have thought.

His time as an instrument to her grief, as an arbiter of her suffering had passed, but he still could not reconcile this closeness with all the things he’d done. They still carried weight, still burdened him. The actions taken between them mere moments ago were unacceptable, whether stemming from actual romantic motivation or otherwise. The alternative Armitage considered even worse. He couldn’t stomach it if only some misguided sense of charity prompted her kiss.

“I don’t want your pity,” he choked out, realizing even as he said the words how much they pained him.

“You don’t get to have my pity, Armitage,” she fired back, defiant at first, but then deflating and slowly approaching him.

“No,” he commanded, side-stepping her, fists clenching against the panic beginning to choke him.

“But _why?”_

The answer, so simple, yet impossible to say out loud— _it was wrong._ No universe existed in which Armitage Hux could befriend, or be in any sort of contact with the sweet, good thing in front of him because—ah! the _truth—_ he didn’t deserve her kindness or her affection and never could.

The reality of her hit him. A real, solid person, not some figment of imagination, but alive and breathing, full of feeling and brimming over with her own hopes and dreams. Lovely to look at, and so far out of reach despite only standing half a span away.

Every ounce of Armitage’s mental faculties then diverted to shoving the storm building up inside him back into the box at the back of his mind labeled ‘do not open,’ and failed miserably.

“Talk to me, please,” she begged, but all he could do was shake his head mutely.

Whatever had held him together as a person began to rip at the seams. He wished to every star in this galaxy and the next that they had just allowed him to die with at least a shred of dignity at the hands of a firing squad, because he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t take any more kindness, and each new act of mercy was a gift he hadn’t bothered to ask for, because he’d known he wasn’t worth the waste of breath.

But worst of all—worse than choking on his fear, worse than drowning in his guilt, worse even than the self-hatred so strong it took his breath away—she still stood there. Quietly, patiently watching him lose control.

She wouldn’t let him leave, and he couldn’t make her go. So, covering his face with a shaking hand, he fell apart.

His body shook with the first sob that tore out of him. Lowering himself to the chair, he took the form of the pathetic, stricken cur he’d always been, doubled over, shoulders heaving.

Rose knelt down in front of him and ran her fingers through his hair, then guided him down to rest his head on her shoulder, rubbing the back of his neck soothingly. The action made it all worse, knowing that she now had seen every ugly part of him laid open and bare, and that she _still_ could be kind.

The emotions ran their course, and when the tears stopped, he noted how hollow and wrung-out his insides felt, wondering how he could still be alive after his heart had been wrenched out of his chest and stomped into the ground. And how good it felt to be held.

Moving away just enough to dry his face and wipe his snot on his sleeve like a child, mortified in every possible way, he recognized the point of no return. She’d seen him at his worst. In a prison cell, filthy and arrogant. Bloodied, beaten, and sadistic. Panic-stricken and pathetic.

And it was as if he stood before the edge of a great black pit, deep and unfathomable. If he leapt in now, he knew he would never be able to crawl back out, could never escape this choice, once made.

The choice to love her.

But even in that moment, he knew he didn’t really have a choice, that he’d already made the jump, was already falling.

Turning his head only a fraction, he barely restrained another sob as he lightly pressed a kiss into the gentle curve where her neck met her shoulder, unable to bear the weight of her gaze and hating himself for being so weak for her.

She shuddered under his touch, and it tempted him to take more while he could. Still shaking, his hand moved up to caress the soft skin at her throat, and he nuzzled into the sensitive spot just under her jaw. The tiniest of moans escaped her, and want, sharp and urgent, ignited in him. He was depraved for her, powerless, desperately craving a release for the hot need filling him but not knowing _how—_

Taking over, Rose drew him back to her mouth, the kisses slower, simmering. Learning on the spot, he took every cue from her, giving only what she gave, because he didn’t know how to do otherwise. When Rose’s hand drifted into his hair and pulled gently, she broke away to nip at his lower lip. Groaning, and even though his hands still shook, he grabbed the front of her shirt and brought her back into the crushing kiss from earlier.

She responded immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck and climbing up into the chair with him to straddle his hips, and Armitage found himself kissing _up,_ knowing deeply that this hierarchy would stand—her first, her higher, her bidding.

Catching a glimpse of his face, she broke the kiss and whispered to him from above, her hands still running through his hair, down his neck, underneath his shirt collar:

“You’re impossible. You know that, right?”

She laughed softly, but it was a trembling thing, and Armitage’s eyes welled up against the burning at the back of his throat, his heart flipping in his chest.

Rushing him in another tight hug, this time Armitage didn’t freeze, instead wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into him. A lifeline, a saving grace. He stayed inside the moment this time, wishing it would last forever, holding her in his arms this way, so afraid she’d snap back to her senses and run away. Praying, _praying_ that she wouldn’t.

Because he was all in, and now not a moment would go by in which Armitage wasn’t in love with her. She held his very heart in her hands, could crush it easily, could tear him to pieces, and he’d smile, grateful that she’d been the one to destroy him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love this trash fire of a relationship. 
> 
> (also hux is a totally unreliable narrator lol Rose would never crush his heart, not ever, we all know that)
> 
> ( ･_･)♡


	19. Epilogue

The issue of holding hands in public was an argument many times in the making, and one that Armitage always lost. Rose, in the most positive sense of the comparison, was like a large all-terrain vehicle, leaving only two options available in the face of a disagreement: forfeit or be run over. Armitage had quickly learned to pick his battles.

Open displays of affection remained a sticking point, despite her repeated encouragement. Her touch lit him up like a live wire, and he preferred the privacy of their quarters, which gave him time and space to process each new brush of her fingers, each new part of her that she let him kiss.

Besides that, Armitage dreaded the distaste that others would throw their way on seeing any degree of intimacy between the two of them, but Rose made it clear that she didn’t care what others might think. She _wanted_ to hold his hand, and if he liked holding hers, then that was the end of it.

Walking down the corridor to the mess hall, Armitage was sulking after just such another spat, his hand firmly enclosed in Rose’s, when Kylo Ren and his Jedi consort rounded the corner.

The sight of him was like a punch to the gut, and a thousand memories rushed back to Armitage, of rivalry and envy, cold fear and seething fury. The last time Armitage had seen the man was prior to the dissolution of the First Order and his subsequent capture, and the person in front of him now was as changed as a man could be.

He’d been the bane of Armitage’s existence for _years,_ the Supreme Leader’s favorite brooding protégé and eventual usurper, and nothing could have prepared Armitage to see him _smiling._

Rose shrieked in delight on spotting the two of them and pulled Armitage forward to greet them, only releasing him to throw her arms around the Jedi, nearly bowling her over in enthusiasm, which the other returned with genuine laughter.

“You’re back!”

“We got in last night,” the Jedi explained.

The girls continued to chat, but Armitage’s attention focused entirely on Ren, who now leveled at him a quirked brow, his glance flicking back and forth between Rose and Armitage, asking the question.

Armitage met Ren's gaze straight on, daring him silently to say even a word about it, when Ren shrugged. With another smile, Ren turned back to the Jedi and reached out to give her shoulder a small squeeze, as naturally as if he’d done it a hundred times before, and she just as easily, just as casually, brought her hand up to meet it, running her fingers over his.

The look of adoration on Ren’s face as he fiddled with a single curl at the nape of the Jedi’s neck ignited an odd mix of jealousy and curiosity in Armitage, but he only stiffly waited for the girls’ conversation to conclude, ready to leave this exchange far behind him.

The girls gave their goodbyes and promises to meet again later, and Armitage saw Rose roll her eyes at him as he eagerly bypassed the other couple. When she caught up with him, she didn’t say a word, only slipped her hand quietly back into his and beamed up at him, clearly pleased with her friend's return.

Armitage couldn’t help the soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he regarded Rose in her happiness, and she halted only briefly to stand on tiptoe and place a kiss on his cheek.

He’d never understand how Rose gave her love to him so freely, but he’d since realized that he didn’t need to. He’d been empty, and now he was full of the light and joy she shared with him. He belonged by her side, holding her hand, and there he would remain until the end of his days, for as long as she would have him.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy ending!!! ≧◡≦
> 
> Thank you to all who read my first foray into the world of GingerRose! I was inspired in so many ways by the lovely people on the discord group GingerRose Hub and their on-the-money headcanons. I commissioned the above piece from [@cielo-chii ](https://cielo-chii.tumblr.com/), please check them out, they are amazing. 
> 
> Feel free to stop by and say hi!  
> [tumblr](https://shewhospeakswiththunder.tumblr.com)  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/shewhospeaks2)


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